


On The Way Up

by slxightofhand



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Death, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Marvel-esque heckery, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-08-20 07:40:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20224237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slxightofhand/pseuds/slxightofhand
Summary: I play my own ineffable game with all of the multiverses that have been created. It's like building a very complex Lego set without any instructions, and the saleswoman who sold you this used set kept smiling at you as you made the transaction.(Check trigger warnings before each chapter!)





	On The Way Up

**Author's Note:**

> hi!! so, first of all:
> 
> chapter 1 has trigger warnings for major character death, death, funeral proceedings, and disordered eating.
> 
> secondly, i'm so glad you're reading this fic!! it's one of my most ambitious crossover ideas yet and i'm super glad that i have the time and place to write again, especially for fandoms as fantastic as Good Omens and Spider-Man: Into the Spiderverse. Marvel? something like that.
> 
> anyway, please enjoy what i have for you! i've certainly enjoyed writing it. <3 updates will occur weekly, at least, if not biweekly. i'll try to formulate a schedule.

Current theories on the creation of the universe state that if it were created at all, and didn’t just start, as it were, unofficially, it came into being about 14 billion years ago. The earth is generally supposed to be about four and a half billion years old. These dates are incorrect...in some parts of the multiverse, anyway.

About 6000 years ago, the universe we’ll call Earth-1609 was created, almost a quarter after 9 in the morning. But it didn’t stop there; it splintered mysteriously against temporal and spatial dimensions, and, with every quadrillion or so events, even the most mundane things, it continued to fracture further. The instability in its spatial-temporal matrix never went away. Earth-1609 is notorious for being the epicenter of a good handful of its own parallels for this reason.

Incidentally, the Earth in Earth-1609 is also a Libra. Its horoscope for September 12, 2018, reads: “You may still feel weighed down by your past. Change is about to come soon. Watch out for low ceilings; you are susceptible to injuring your head today. Look for help in a child’s heart when you need it.”

All of this eventually rings true, except for one thing: the ceilings. (No one builds ceilings low enough to injure anymore, unless you jump particularly high when you’re excited, or if you’re tall and lanky.)

To understand the true significance of what that means, we need to begin earlier-- a little more than three weeks earlier.

* * *

It's raining in Soho, London, and Anthony J. Crowley-- who often simply goes by his last name, Crowley, as if he were some aristocrat-- grimaces out at it through a dirty window. He keeps saying he'll clean said window. And all the others in this flat above a once-cherished bookstore. And the sink. And the bathtub. And--

_ No, Crowley. Stop. Don’t be hard on yourself like this. It's not what he would have wanted. _

He rolls over in bed, wrapped in blankets that look too plentiful for just one person, and then curls up into a sort of halfway fetal position. _ Shit, I shouldn't be thinking of everything that way, either. It's not healthy. _

But grief was not a simple thing.

He keeps turning it over in his head-- he _ killed _Aziraphale. Basically condemned him to die by looking away from the road for two seconds to see his smiling face. And then it never smiled again.

When he closes his eyes, as he is doing now to try and ward that thought off, he still sees the individual that he wanted to call his angel, his love, screaming his name in slow motion. Pointing desperately at the car whipping out in front of them.

And then...he doesn’t remember what happened immediately after that, as the airbag knocked him unconscious. He came to again just minutes later when he was being lifted onto a stretcher, and he saw not only the smoldering remains of the Bentley, but also the angel he so dearly loved stuck inside. Emergency services were attempting to pry open Crowley’s car to reach him, as his side of the vehicle was pressed against a concrete slab.

He couldn’t even scream or flail to try and run back to him. He felt weak, and his limbs were strapped down.

The next time he saw Aziraphale was at his wake.

Aziraphale, last name Eastgate, came from some sort of British royalty-- his father was the earl of Essex-- so his family was fairly stiff and old-fashioned. Some of the more extended family gave Crowley dirty looks, as they knew him as the “ridiculous gay” that had “soiled their heritage”. Crowley didn’t understand, and he didn’t care to understand what was behind those glaring eyes.

Anathema, a mutual friend of his and Aziraphale’s, was the first to embrace him when he was near the casket; then, her boyfriend Newton. Both hugs were quite necessarily long. They spoke briefly, but none of the parties could hold conversation for long.

Aziraphale's mother did not notice him until he approached; she was too busy staring at her child, who was still obscured from view by the casket from Crowley’s current standpoint.

“Mrs. Eastgate?”

The elderly woman took another couple of moments, then slowly lifted her head, and smiled bittersweetly at the person who had called her. “Crowley, dear. Thank you for coming.”

“No need to thank me. It's what friends do.”

She nodded, then had to hold a handkerchief to her eyes for another few moments, and she sobbed quietly. Crowley gave her space and quiet, and eventually she dabbed her eyes and folded her hands once more-- a trait Aziraphale picked up from her, most likely.

“He loved you, you know.”

Crowley's brow raised, and he could feel pressure building behind his eyes. “...Ma’am?”

Again, Mrs. Eastgate smiled, but her eyes watered. “There were stars in his eyes when he talked about you, Crowley, and he was always glowing when he returned from a day out with you. He always talked to me about how much he wanted to sweep you off your feet, but he never could find the right time or place.”

Crowley felt overwhelmed, and he didn't have to touch his face to know that tears were there; the hot, wet streaks were unfamiliar to him, as he hadn't often cried, but unmistakable. “I wish he would have.”

“I know, dear. I know. A lot has happened with the two of you, hasn't it?”

“Yes, Mrs. Eastgate. It was a wonderful 20 years since primary school. Rocky sometimes, but wonderful nonetheless.” His voice broke on the second “wonderful”, and he had to cover his mouth to muffle a sob.

Mrs. Eastgate stepped forward and put her arms around him, and he did the same, meeting her in the middle. They both cried on each other's shoulders for a long, long time.

When Crowley finally gathered up the courage to look at Aziraphale, his friend looked… peaceful. Even the abrasions from where the windshield and window had splintered and struck him seemed to have been _ miracle _d away.

He was still crying, of course, when he leaned down to kiss his forehead, and brushed bits of wispy hair back off of said forehead a bit. “I’m sorry, angel. Truly, I am. I would have done more if I could,” he paused to sob quietly, “and I shouldn't have been so damn _ stupid _ to look away from the road like that. We-- we got lectured on that _ together _in driving school, even.”

Part of him expected Aziraphale to sit up and hug him in the warm, wonderful way that he always did, but-- alas. His mind was playing rude, horrible tricks on him.

He supposed that was what he deserved.

“Please remember that I love you, wherever you've gone,” Crowley wept, and bowed his head. “And I hope you're not suffering anymore.”

Within the two hours that Aziraphale was at the hospital, he had died. The impact at such high speed, and the reaction of the airbag, had whiplashed the upper cervical bones in his body in such a way that it impaired his ability to breathe and circulate blood.

It really was his fault, wasn't it?

Crowley’s eyes snap open and he realizes that he’s crying again, the tears running down across his face horizontally and dripping down onto the bed. He can barely even feel the soft silk of his pajamas as he wipes at his eyes with the sleeve; the grief is too prominent, like a lead balloon in his chest.

He sits up, and his head rushes with the effort. He feels weak.

When was the last time he ate? Or even got out of bed?

He doesn’t know.

_ Suppose now is as good a time as any. _

The redhead uncovers himself and slowly brings his legs over the edge of the bed, then stands, wobbling a bit. _ Yep. Definitely dehydrated and hungry _, he thinks, and his stomach growls in response. Not bothering to lift his feet off the tile, he shuffles off to the kitchen.

What he doesn’t notice is a small spider crawling onto his foot from within the plush, shaggy rug next to his bed. It’s not really all that noticeable, just grey and orb-like, until it begins to light up a bit, and reveals that it’s glowing blue at the tips of its eight legs and on a symbol on its abdomen.

It crawls up Crowley’s leg with purpose, tiny, artificial hairs brushing up against the soft silk. It doesn’t care for the sensation, really; too smooth for its tiny processor. But it has a mission, and it will be damned if it doesn’t fulfill it.

Crowley makes it to the kitchen around a minute and a half later, having to pause on more than one occasion to make sure he doesn’t keel over from his aching, spinning head. He’s clutching his stomach with one hand and reaching out to the fridge with another when he realizes: there’s something on his hand.

He brings said hand closer to his face and discovers a tiny, almost metallic-looking spider that seems to be looking back at him. Before he can grab a cup and a piece of paper, it sinks its fangs into him, and he gasps wetly, suddenly stricken with the sense that something bad is going to happen.

Slender limbs cannot bring themselves to move, and he watches in paralyzed fear as the spider loses its glow and goes dark, then promptly removes its fangs from the vein in his hand. Finally, he’s able to move, and against all the things that Aziraphale told him about all God’s little creatures, he slaps it and flings its body onto the kitchen counter.

There’s an unnatural, tiny crunch when he does, but it seems to die just like any spider would when it’s stricken. He remains still for a moment, staring at it, and then shudders.

He doesn’t feel right.

Enough to where he’s seeing things, apparently, because he _ swears _he sees a strange distortion surround the spider. A bunch of colors flash around it, and at the edges of his vision, at the same time; he shakes his head to clear it, and just as suddenly as it appeared, the distortion is gone.

He takes a deep, shaky breath, and then traps the spider’s body under a used plastic cup and slides an index card under it. Better safe than sorry.

What he saw could just be the hunger eating away at his brain… but then again, venom can act quickly.

He’ll keep an eye on it. Aziraphale would have wanted him to live, after all.

_ No nope nope stop that, Anthony. You can’t cry again. That’s not you. _

The pressure behind his eyes is forced back again, and he pours himself a bowl of cereal. His hand, like his breathing, shakes as he brings the first spoonful to his mouth and carefully chews. The meager meal winds up being wolfed and slurped down at a rate unlike him; he knows this to be his reaction to starvation. It’s happened before, after all. Growing up in an unfeeling, cold environment does that to you.

And now it seems like he’s doomed to exist in that way once more.

The only reason he was even in this now-empty flat atop the bookshop that once belonged to Aziraphale is because Mrs. Eastgate gave him the spare key at the funeral. She told him to stay as long as he liked while he was taking off work, which he had told her about at the wake-- and he had wept at that gesture of kindness, then, too, as he had many times over the past few days.

Crowley had always felt at home here, and to a degree, he still did.

There was just less warmth in a place where the soul that had thrummed at its core to keep it lively and fun for many had departed and left it cold.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!! if you like what you read, hit me up at @rathersketchy or @transmazda and let me know. i appreciate you. :-)


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